Climax
by CeCeLa
Summary: "Going nowhere fast, we've reached the climax. We're together, now we're undone. Won't commit so we choose to run away. Do we separate? Don't want to give in so we both gave up. Can't take it back, it's too late, and we've reached the climax."


Because this paring doesn't get enough love like so many other countries, in my opinion. On a tangent, I had the hardest time publishing this. The site was acting weird. It would underline things that shouldn't be underlined (like every other paragraph in the story) and remove the underlines from where I'd put them. It really freaked me out. Anyways, I don't own Hetalia. Nor do I own the two quotes from Usher's "Moving Mountains'"and 'Climax', that latter of which was the influence for the title.

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"_I really want to give her everything she deserves, but the bad took away the good. She thinks that I'm full of it; always pissed, man I'm tired. I shouldn't complain about it. I should take it like and walk out it. Because we will never be the same, I've been standing in gas and you have been the flames._"

_**Climax**_:

The only thing within reach is a small global shaped paperweight. Spain doesn't care and grabs the object. With far too much force, he throws it and it spirals towards the window. The roar of thunder overshadows the sound of the fragile material breaking. Shattered glass is tossed about as the winds from the storm outside throws some piece back inside the office. He shields his face, as icy rain and glass hit him, cutting at his shirt and arms. The papers on his desk are caught up in the whirlwind but he is too angry to care.

Spain takes a step forward, glass cracking on the wet floor under his boots, towards the torrents of rain outside. It was wrong, everything had gone wrong so quickly that he didn't have time to defend against it. His friend, supposed ally, betrayed him and now she is leaving him. He takes another step forward; his torn shirt ruffles and loosely clings to him from increasing becoming wet. He blinks away water that hinges on his eyelashes. Through the haze of grey skies and storm clouds, furious rain and flashes of lighting, down the path that leads from his camp she is running.

He grabs the side windowsill. Glass digs into his hand, and he leans forward. Are his eyes playing tricks on him? They widen in an effort to see clearer, it stings but he does it anyway, leaning further out into the unforgiving weather. He thought she'd left a long time ago. But now, seeing her running, the anger rises in his chest once again, lips drawn in a straight line and he widens his stance.

She has no right, no right to do this to him. Not after everything they'd gone through and she leaves him now, for _him_ of all people. His grip on the sill tightens, forcing pieces of glass deeper into his palm. The pain is distant, numbing if anything. Without thinking, his other hands grips the opposite sill and he braces himself.

If she only took the time to listen, to let him explain, but her damn temper was a force to be reckoned with. She'd shut him out, built a wall around herself for sole purpose of keeping him away. Trying to climb that wall was moving mountains, nearly impossible. At this point, Spain knew, that an apology just wouldn't do it. He'd crossed the line and put her and himself at the mercy of France.

He grinds his teeth at the thought, France lied to him. His knee, slowly reaches up, pressing into the bottom of the window and lifting him off the ground. Glass crunches as Spain stands and balances himself in the frame, trying not to be blown by the wind. Had he known what that Frenchmen was up to, he would have disagreed. Said no and walked away. But, he trusted him and that is what's eating at his core.

Her figure starts to fade, lost within the hurricane outside. Spain tilts forward, stretching green eyes to see better. It is hard to differentiate and recognize her from a tree. When he realizes this, he jumps without thinking, hitting the wet ground, and tumbling in grass and broken glass before scrambling to his feet.

Outside the rain was more forceful, weighing him down. The winds were against him, pushing him back as he runs. But he runs still, he is soaked from head to toe and his boots start to fill with muddy water with every puddle he stomps through.

"Portugal," he shouts to no avail as thunder screams louder making his voice barely a whisper, "Portugal!"

She runs just like he does, away from him, away from France, away from everything. She won't listen to him. She's angry with him; hurt, betrayed when that was not his intentions at all. If she would just…

Spain growls in frustration and picks up speed. All he wants to do is fix it, fix them. She will not give him that opportunity but turns to his rival for support. Why him? Why England? Was it to spite him? Mocking that fact that the Brit's empire was on the verge of surpassing his own? Portugal is cold, but surely she is not that heartless, that resentful. Surely he had not fall so out of her favor that the Portuguese woman would wish his demise? Perhaps, but he is not willing to accept such a fate.

His legs start to hurt, he is worn, tired from defeat and betrayal. Amidst the showers he can make out her figure. Portugal is slowing down or he is going faster that she. His eyes adjust and he realizes that it is the former, but not for reasons he'd hoped. She is stumbling, holding her side, head skyward. It's a sight that pierces his heart. Portugal is hurt, most likely from his recent mistake.

When she dips forward he extends his hand, grabbing her arm before she can fall, "Portugal,"

At her name she turns to him, blue eyes as dull as the sky. They stare for a moment before she violently pulls away from.

"You've done enough, Espana," her words are icy, like the rain, "Let me go.

Spain takes hold of her again, "Portugal, please come back inside. We can talk about…"

She chuckles madly; brushing the wet hair from her forehead, "Talk? You want to talk?" her tone turns serious, "Where was your need to talk when you crossed my borders uninvited? You and that ingrate!"

"I didn't know," he tried, gaze shifting towards the muddy earth, "I didn't know Francis was going to do that. He promised that we would be allies."

Portugal reels, wrestling her arm from the Spaniard's grip. The rain doesn't let up and though she appears weak, Spain learns that all of her strength in not gone when the woman shoves him in the chest. The force makes him stumble and he looks up.

"Who was this alliance promised to, hm?" her voice is dangerous as she pushes him back again, "To me? To the person who's land you tried to steal?"

He reaches for her wrist and holds her palms against his chest, "I never wanted to steal your land, mi angel preciosa," he presses it harder against his raging heart through the wet material of his shirt.

Her fingers curl and she digs her nails through causing him to wince but he doesn't let go, "Don't call me that," Portugal warns.

He ignores her warning and takes a step forward, "Please Portugal, I just want us to be like we were, when you and I were…"

"Married?" she finishes for her him but the word carries disdain, "Because those were great times?"

Lightening flashes and the clap of thunder soon follows. Although the rain lightens just a bit, it is still a heavy shower. Spain doesn't answer her right away, trying to find the right words. No, it wasn't always great but that was marriage? To wish for happiness at all times was a child's dream. Marriage is work and he is willing to work, has always been willing to work for her sake.

"I was much happier then," Spain, says carefully, "I want that back."

Portugal huffs then chuckles and tries to pull free, "Of course, it is always about you. What the great Spain wants and his will and his way. Selfish. Arrogant. Full of it, you're full if it!"

Spain blinks then furrows in brow as the words churn in his mind, "Selfish? The marriage was for you. Your people were without a king."

"And we wanted a Portuguese one!" she raises her voice, "I didn't need your help."

The anger was returning and Spain drops her wrist with a bit of force. He takes a half step back and eyes the woman before him. It was always the same. The same arguments, the same resentment and no gratitude for what he sacrificed for her.

"Philip was rightfully crowned. I came in to help you and your people from being conquered or mistreated." Spain says though his voice is edgier when he tries to keep his temper in check.

Portugal rolls her eyes, "Because your kings were much better? I told you, I did not want nor did I need your help. Anthony was closer to my bloodline than your ratchet Philip. But you didn't listen, you never listen."

She takes a step towards him, "Not even after we resisted for three years, Espana. Three years! What more clear sign did you need that I did not want to be your wife? Your greedy arrogance and thirst for power overshadowed my needs, just like now. And look,"

Portugal opens her arms in display of the land, "France has us both under his thumb."

The words sting, slicing into his pride and Spain is lost for words. He mentally wrestles with a response, although his anger is winning over reason. Portugal is so ungrateful for everything. Could she not see his heart and how he cared? Did she think his feelings were false?

"Do you think I wanted this?" he says finally, "To give Francis more power? More land, to give him you?"

She grunts in obvious disbelieve and it wounds him, "Because you had me to give and I have somehow because expendable? If you want to play empire, go find your little Italian but do not cross my borders and think I will roll over."

Something snaps deep within his mind. He is tired. Tired of this. Everything is falling, extensions of his empire are pulling apart and he feels every limb as it falls away. And the one thing he tries to hold on to, the one person, wants nothing to do with him. To her, what he says doesn't matter. What he does is overlooked. She cared for him once. She loved him once. They loved each other. Before today, Portugal may have loved him once again.

Spain rakes a hand through doused hair and turns towards the villa. He wants to run but he can't move. A frustration course through his veins and anger is boiling in his lungs. Confusion clouds his mind while the rain obscures his vision.

"This is not about empire," he bites out and looks to Portugal once again, "I gave of myself, I was made the fool and all you do is complain. I am the one who's been tricked here."

Portugal waves her arm and points an angry finger at him, "That's bull and you know it. It's always about conquering and comparing yourself to them. You came to once again reclaim the land of Portugal and France outwitted you. Because for some reason, you two assumed I was some wounded damsel. When I was the one who started it all. It was my ships that sailed those seas long before you knew how to use a row boat."

"Say the truth then. This is about your pride not mine. I'm giving you the opportunity to be apart of something great again." He growls.

She laughs manically then looks away, "You speak as if I have somehow lost my greatness. I'm not in need of aid. I don't want to be apart of your empire. I want my own, I have my own without you."

"For someone who doesn't need help," Spain starts before he can process his own words, "I would have been fooled by your actions. Scold me for my efforts, yet you go to England even now."

She jerks around, brown tresses spraying wild, "There is a difference between taking and asking. He offered his allegiance not forced his way in, so don't you dare do that to him."

Her expression is wrathful but Spain hardly cares anymore, he is equally livid, "Why are you running to him?"

"And who, pray tell, am I supposed to go to? My enemy is on my territory because of you," Portugal pointedly shoves his shoulder, " And I am hiding in the countryside of my own home. My allies are here for me for such a reason as this."

Spain jabs a finger into his chest and leans close to get his point across, "I've been here for you. I've always been here, Portugal. He is across the Channel, and could care less about what goes on here that doesn't suit his power interest."

She shakes her head vigorous, "How ironic, when you have been my political rival for you decades. Political power is the whole reason I am in this situation. Don't talk of him like you know his character when you know nothing."

Now it's his turn to chuckle, "Because Arthur is a saint and I am the sinner?"

"Arthur," Portugal yells their faces inches apart, "has been my most loyal and trusted ally long before you stole my country."

Spain clenches his fist and despite self-control, finds himself yelling as well, "I saved you from being that pirate's whore for 60 years and this is how you repay my kindness? You insult my efforts; disregard my sacrifices all to be with you, Maria,"

Before he can finish, Portugal's slaps him. The strike is hard enough but the rain intensifies the stinging in his cheek. His jaws reflexively clench and release. Spain's fist are balled so tight, the skin of his knuckles are paling. He wants to hit something, but not her. It's England that he wants to split in two with the head of his axe.

Her eyes are ablaze with a fire he hasn't seen for years. She sizes him before speaking; "I'd rather be a pirate's whore than a madman's wife." Her words are threatening.

Yet Spain is not phased by her tone, he challenges it; "I would be surprised had you not run back to his arms after our union. You call me selfish and arrogant but it's you."

"I'm selfish for protecting what's mine?" she ask, then stomps her foot and points at the ground, "This is mine, all of it is mine. The Iberian Union ended with my war for independence; you have no right to be here."

Portuguese Restoration War, Spain remembers it well. There are scars still from that time. From Frances's first betrayal and she went scurrying back to England to get rid of him. They argued more than usual, and there were times he fretted going home because of it. The likes of which were similar to what is happening now. Portugal wanted to be free he wanted her to stay. He kept trying hoping things would change. She'd give in for a night before the disagreements started again and washed his progress away.

Portugal turns again but Spain reaches out, unsure of what else to do. He pulls her close but she struggles against him. She slaps him in the face, punches him in the chest. He grabs at her wrist but she his fighting against him.

"Stop it," Spain growls when she slaps him again. Swatting her other arm away, Portugal response by jabbing him in the rib with her elbow. Seeing an opening, he seizes the elbow that just hit him and forces her around. With his arms he pulls her close to his chest.

"Let me go, Espana," Portugal roars. Her arms are trapped beneath his but Spain knows better than think she his helpless. With the heel of her boot, she kicks his shin and throws him off balance enough to stumble.

She pulls him down by the shirt and knees him in the gut. Spain buckles for a moment but moves just in time to dodge the next blow. Both of them are weak but he has the upper hand. Taking hold of her shoulders, he forces her swinging arms still. Portugal bares teeth and he does the same. Sometime in the midst of their scuffle the buttons of his shirt were undone, so were top few of hers.

She closes the distance. His head tilts down and without thinking he presses his cold lips to her wet ones. The kiss is forceful, possessive, and desperate. Something that Portugal holds her breath for then takes a deep one through her nose. She returns it, just as demanding and fiery. Spain's hands find her face, fingers tangle betwixt wet hair. Portugal twists the material of his undone shirt, pulling him closer and pressing her exposed chest against his. She gasps first for air, but then takes his bottom lip between both of her and her tongue gave a pleasurable lick across it, looking for a way into his mouth.

Rainfalls, thunder roars and lightning flashes. They are just as violent as the storm around them. When his hands search her sides, bunching her shirt in his grip, she responses with fingers in his hair. Feathering over the nap of his hairline, she pulls on his neck to make him buckle. And when she pulls back for, he grips her lips with his teeth. Spain explores the curve of her figure, his touch drifting lower to the circumference of her butt. Portugal reactively grunts, snaking one leg around his thigh. But he wants more, so much more and wet fingertips reaches under the hem of her shirt.

Warm, wet skin makes him shiver with anxiety. Memories of nights from years ago flood his conscience. Of her tangled in his arms between clean sheets of sticky summer afternoons. Legs wrapped around his waist, his face buried in the curve of her neck. She palmed at his back and the scent of the Atlantic filling his nostrils. It was for that smell alone that he became a pirate, and to chase her across the world.

But Portugal is pushing at his shoulders, forcing his hands away from the warmth that they desperately cling to. She's forcing him back and Spain has to blink away the haze in his mind to realize that she is backing up. There are no words, just the space that she created between them. Her eyes are on him but he can't read her expression.

"Mar…" he starts but she holds up her hand and takes another step back. Spain mimics her movement and she backs up more.

"Stop," Portugal says, "Just stop. You are still my enemy."

He listens and she backs up further before turning away from him. Spain reaches out his hand but she can't see it. He follows silently and she picks up speed. The distance grows and he lessens his steps. Because Portugal doesn't turn back, nor does she slow down.

Just as sure as the rain is thinning, he knows where she is going. Who she is going to, but he can't bring himself to move anymore. Her figure fades into the countryside. Grey clouds travel across the ominous sky and the wind carries with it the scent of rain though there is none now.

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_A/N" __Historical framework__: In the 18th century, Spain and France teamed up and invaded Portugal under Napoleon and the Spanish king. Napoleon promised to give Portugal to Spain but in the end, took control of the country, the driving Portuguese royal family to Brazil and overthrowing the Spanish king. Portugal and Spain reluctantly allied, under English command, to drive Napoleon from both countries and won._

_Philip__-refers to Philip II, the Spanish king who was crowed king of Portugal in the 16th century at the form of the Iberian Union. _

_Anthony__-the Portuguese heir to the throne which was given to Philip II_

_Iberian Union__-Portugal's king died without an heir, causing a succession war which united both Portugal and Spain under Philip II of 60 years. Because of this, Portugal was put at odds with its long time ally England until the Restoration Wars._

_Portuguese Restoration War__-In the later half of the 16th century, Portugal rebelled against Spanish rule and with the help of England and France and became an independent nation once again._

_-CeCe_


End file.
